


Start Over Tonight

by GotTheSilver



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Comes Back, Father-Son Relationship, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTheSilver/pseuds/GotTheSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Season 3a.</p>
<p>
  <i>He hasn’t been sleeping.  Ever since they did the ritual, he hasn’t had one full night of sleep and when it’s really bad, he finds himself parked outside Derek’s abandoned loft.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start Over Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Adding to the pile of 'Derek returns' fic. This ended up very different to how I originally imagined it to be.
> 
> Title from Paramore - Miracle.

Stiles isn’t sure how it starts.

Well, that’s a lie, he knows how it starts. He just doesn't know why.

He hasn’t been sleeping. Ever since they did the ritual, he hasn’t had one full night of sleep and when it’s really bad, he finds himself parked outside Derek’s abandoned loft. It’s most nights lately; he tosses and turns and punches his pillow until his arms ache and when he finally give up and gets out of bed, he pulls on his sneakers and leaves the house.

His dad knows he goes out at night, but they don’t talk about it. Stiles doesn’t know why they don’t, because they’ve talked about everything else. They’ve spent evenings going over the ins and outs of werewolves and druids and everything Stiles has been dealing with over the past year. He’s tried to keep some things secret, tried to gloss over the amount of times he’s been directly involved in serious amounts of violence, but it’s his dad and sometimes he gives Stiles this look and Stiles knows he’s not fooling him.

When he went driving that first night, he made it all the way to the city limits before he stopped and sat there staring at the sign that told him if he crossed this invisible line he’d be leaving Beacon Hills. Fuck, Stiles didn’t even know if it was possible for him to leave Beacon Hills now. If maybe he irrevocably tied himself to the place when they did the ritual. Not that he’d take it back, it was his _dad_. Whatever it meant for him now, for his future, he wouldn’t take it back.

Stiles thinks that maybe it’s that which isn’t letting him sleep. The thought of what they might’ve brought to Beacon Hills. Things more terrifying than what they’ve already faced. He pours through myths and supernatural legends, filling his head with possibilities of what could be coming.

He keeps turning up at school with dark circles under his eyes and Scott frowns at him, asks if he’s okay. Stiles tries to laugh it off because he doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know how to explain that he’s terrified if he doesn’t plan for what could come, they’ll fail. He’ll fail and more people will die. It’s not that he doesn’t think Scott will understand, he’s sure he would, but Stiles can’t bring himself to say the words. Can’t make himself put the guilt he’s carrying out into the world like that because that makes it real.

There’s a part of him that blames himself for Jennifer. Thinks he should’ve realised anyone new in their lives could’ve had an agenda, that with their luck—Derek’s luck—nothing like that was ever going to end well. He tries not to think about it, but when he passes by Boyd’s locker every day and there’s flowers and notes still stuck to it, he can’t help what floods through his brain.

*

It wasn’t until a week into his sleeplessness that he found himself outside Derek’s loft. Now it’s the only place he goes. The whole building is dark and imposing and Stiles hates it. He doesn’t blame Derek for leaving because if Derek had stayed in that place, Stiles doubts if he would’ve survived at all. It’s a monument to death, betrayal and violence, and Stiles can’t understand why he feels comforted by parking outside.

Because he does.

It’s so fucked up.

He doesn’t want to think that maybe it has something to do with the fact that he still thinks of it as Derek’s loft. That since he left, it’s the only thing Stiles has as a connection to Derek.

He doesn’t want to analyse why he needs a connection to Derek.

*

One night he’s parked outside the loft, reading a book by flashlight when he spots his dad’s cruiser pulling up behind him. He waits patiently when he hears the engine switch off, followed by the door closing. Stiles leans over and unlocks the jeep door, he’s quiet as his dad climbs in before closing his book and resting it on his lap.

“So,” his dad says, glancing up at the building. “How long has he been gone?”

Stiles taps his fingers against the steering wheel and looks at his dad, not bothering to deny what his dad already knows. “Three weeks.”

“Does this have anything to do with why you’re not sleeping?”

“Yes? No? I don’t—there are a lot of reasons.” He catches his dad looking at the book in his lap and, okay, maybe he shouldn’t be reading things with ‘occult’ in the title when he’s in public.

“But he’s one of them?” Rubbing the back of his hand against his face, his dad sighs. “I know we haven’t talked about what exactly Derek Hale is to you in all this, but—you’re parked outside of the man’s loft, Stiles. And from what my deputies tell me, this isn’t a one time thing.”

“It’s not like that. Nothing happened when he was here.”

“But you wanted it to?”

“No? I didn’t know—” Stiles breaks off, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes, the heavy weight of his dad’s hand on his shoulder making this harder than it should be. He lets out a frustrated groan and shakes his head. “I guess I miss him.”

“You’re allowed to miss him, kid.”

Stiles scrubs his hands through his hair and shrugs. “Am I?”

“Yes,” his dad says firmly. “You are. Stiles, whatever relationship you had with Derek Hale, you went through a lot together.”

“That’s an understatement,” Stiles mutters, fingers rubbing against the spine of his book.

“At some point we are going to have to talk about what this is, kiddo. About what Derek is to you,” he says, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder. “But I’ve got to get back to work. Try not to stay out here all night, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, dad.” Stiles waves a hand at his dad as he leaves the jeep. He’s lucky, and he knows it. His dad could easily force him to go home, make him stay in his room even if he’s not sleeping, but he doesn’t. Stiles doesn’t know if that’s because he’s aware of the supernatural element of their lives now, or because his dad is just giving him a break, but he’s stupidly thankful for it.

*

A week later he’s heading towards the same space, but as he pulls up, he sees a light on in the loft. If he squints, he can see a figure moving around and he’s out of the jeep before he can even think about it. Stiles races up the stairs and stops dead at the open door because Derek’s right _there_ , standing by the window, looking like a fucking shadow.

“Derek?” Stiles’ voice comes out as a whisper that only werewolf hearing would be able to pick up, which Derek proves by the way his shoulders tense.

“You coming in?” Derek says without turning around, and Stiles takes a few steps inside. He takes a few more when he realises Derek isn’t moving and doesn’t stop until he’s standing by Derek’s side. His eyes greedily pour over Derek, cataloguing the subtle differences he can see; Derek’s hair is a little longer, his beard thicker, he’s lost some muscle mass and his leather jacket hangs looser than it did before.

“You’re back,” he says, automatically wanting to smack himself for saying something so obvious. “Are you staying?”

“That’s the plan,” Derek says, still staring out of the window.

“Are you—you’re not going to keep living here, are you? Because seriously Derek, that’s too much, even for you.”

Derek turns his head and looks at Stiles for the first time in over a month. “I’ll get a new place, Stiles.”

“What about tonight?”

“I’ll be fine here,” Derek says, his back stiffening, eyes flitting over to where Boyd—nope, no.

“Stay with us—me—until you find a new place.” Oh crap, he didn’t mean to say that. Well he kind of did, but not before he’d called his dad. Derek’s looking at him with wide eyes and a quirked lip and, fuck, Stiles has missed that face.

“Stay with you? Stiles, just because your dad knows about werewolves now, doesn’t mean he—”

“Yes, yes it does,” Stiles interrupts. “I’m calling him right now.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Oh.” And, yeah, his dad isn’t on nights this week.

Derek gets this look on his face and— “why are you here in the middle of the night, Stiles?”

“I, uh.” Stiles walks away, leaning against the table. “I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Why?”

“Did anyone tell you about what Scott, Allison and I did that night?” Derek shakes his head and Stiles sighs because, sure, why would anyone tell Derek anything? “Okay, great. Long story short, in order to save our parents, we took a long bath and the result is that Beacon Hills became a beacon again. According to Deaton all manner of evil beings could be heading this way.”

Derek nods, coming to stand next to him; arms brushing against each other, Derek’s hip pressing against Stiles. “So you’re scared.” It’s not a question, but his voice holds no judgement.

“No. Kind of. I don’t know,” Stiles says, running a hand through his hair. “I need to plan, I need to read, because if I know things then we can’t be surprised and—”

“And you can protect people.”

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugs. “Stupid, right?”

“No,” Derek says, his eyes cloudy as he ducks his head for a moment. “Maybe if I—it’s not stupid, Stiles.”

They stand there in a comfortable silence, Derek’s leather clad arm resting against his, and Stiles is finding it hard to resist the urge to lean into Derek when there’s a sudden crack of lightning and rain starts to fall through the still broken skylight. Stiles grabs Derek by the wrist and pulls him away from underneath the downpour.

“You can’t stay here,” Stiles says, his hand still around Derek’s wrist. “Come back with me. We can explain it to my dad in the morning.”

Derek’s eyes flit from the skylight, to the spot where Boyd died, to the bed before he nods slowly, picking up his bag and swinging it over his shoulder.

*

The sun is peeking over the horizon when Stiles pulls up to his house, and he knows his dad will be awake soon. Thankfully it’s a Friday, so he doesn’t have the prospect of facing school on the combination of no sleep and Derek returning to town.

He heads upstairs, Derek following him closely, his footsteps light on the stairs. They’re both soaked through and Stiles walks over to his chest of drawers, tugging his sopping wet shirt over his head. It should be strange, he thinks, getting undressed in front of Derek, but somehow it’s not. He can hear Derek behind him, unzipping his bag, the soft rustle of whatever clothing he’s taking out. It’s _comfortable_ , and that scares Stiles more than anything he’s come across in his reading.

When he turns around, Derek’s wearing soft looking sweatpants—not unlike Stiles’ own—and a t shirt with ‘Take A Hike’ emblazoned across Derek’s chest. Stiles grins and gestures at the shirt. “Cora make you buy it?”

“Yeah.” Derek tugs at the hem, a smile playing on his lips.

“So you went there? The Grand Canyon?” Stiles sits at the top of his bed and crosses his legs.

“Yep. S’big,” Derek says, yawning widely.

“Really? You surprise me,” Stiles says because sometimes he can’t help himself. “Tired?”

Derek nods, rubbing a hand against his jaw. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“And be the first thing my dad sees when he wakes up? Yeah, that’ll end well.” Stiles rolls his eyes and pats the mattress. “Get in the bed, Derek.”

“You think we’ll both fit?” Derek says as he makes his way over, one knee on the bed and no, Stiles is not looking at the way the soft fabric stretches across Derek’s thighs.

“Unless you developed an aversion to touching me, we can make it work.”

The sunlight is peeking through the side of Stiles’ curtains where he forgot to close them properly and the rays hit Derek’s skin as he peels his t shirt off. Stiles huffs and looks away, kicking the blankets down and laying on his side, waiting for Derek to settle down. It’s only a little surprising when Derek slots himself right behind Stiles, one arm curling over his waist. “Is this okay?” Derek asks as he splays his hand across Stiles’ chest, beard tickling the back of his neck, and Stiles squirms, trying not to push his ass back against Derek’s crotch.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, his voice rough. “It’s fine.” He knows Derek doesn’t need to be touching him to realise how fast his heart is beating, and is sure Derek realises it doesn’t slow down when he feels Derek’s lips brushing against the back of his neck.

“Sleep, Stiles,” Derek says, his fingers stroking Stiles’ chest in a soothing rhythm and Stiles sighs, not convinced that’s going to happen, however much he’s enjoying Derek’s touch. “Close your eyes,” Derek whispers. “Nothing’s going to happen if you do, I promise.” He keeps talking softly, Stiles feels his eyelids getting heavier and his mouth parts, letting out a surprised noise as he drifts off.

*

At some point during the night—day—whatever, Stiles twisted around like he usually does and he wakes up with his head on Derek’s stomach, feet dangling off the bed. Derek’s still touching him, his arm a solid weight against Stiles’ back, fingers resting on Stiles’ neck. Yawning, Stiles straightens himself out, creeping back up the bed and rubbing his face against the pillow. Derek’s face is so close that Stiles finds himself staring. His eyes are still closed, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Even with the bushier beard, Derek looks younger as he sleeps, his face softer and there are no bags under his eyes, no lines on his face. Derek’s mouth is slightly parted, his lips full and Stiles wants to touch _everything_. He wants to run his fingers through the thick locks of hair that have fallen onto Derek’s forehead, wants to press his thumb against Derek’s bottom lip to see what will happen.

There’s a knock on the door that startles Stiles, interrupting his musings and Derek’s eyes snap open, instantly alert.

“Stiles?” His dad pushes the door open before Stiles can answer and Derek’s face is the very definition of anxiety. “Oh,” his dad says. “Derek Hale.”

Derek rolls onto his back and pushes himself into a sitting position, the back of his neck flushing when he realises he’s shirtless. “Yes sir,” he says tentatively.

“You’re back,” says the Sheriff as he steps inside Stiles’ room, folding his arms across his chest. “And you’re in my son’s bed.”

Stiles winces and sits up to look at his dad, his elbow bashing into Derek’s bicep. “Uh, hi.”

“That’s what you’ve got for me?”

“Until I’ve had some coffee, I’m gonna go with yes,” Stiles says, squinting in the light that floods the room as his dad yanks open the curtains.

“Downstairs. Ten minutes,” his dad says before walking out of the room, pointedly leaving the door open.

Stiles flops back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. “If you’re thinking about going out of the window, I’ll shoot you myself.”

There’s a snort from Derek and a sudden loss of warmth beside him as Derek climbs out of the bed. Turning his head, Stiles watches Derek run a hand through his bedhead and root around in his bag for a toothbrush. It’s pink and looks really small in Derek’s hand. He wonders what Derek looks like with toothpaste foam spilling down his chin. Wonders if he could get away with making a rabies joke. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that Derek makes it to the bathroom and back before Stiles even gets out of bed.

“You moving anytime soon?” Derek asks, pulling on the shirt he discarded last night.

“Probably,” Stiles says, watching the fabric cover Derek’s chest before he gets out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. Spitting out the toothpaste in the sink, he shakes his head as he looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t exactly look rested, it would take more than a few good hours to do that, but he looks better than he has done. Figures that he’d only get some decent sleep with Derek in his bed.

When he walks out of the bathroom, Derek is waiting at the top of the stairs and Stiles’ heart skips when Derek takes his hand and squeezes. It’s confusing him so much. He doesn’t get why they’ve managed to fall into this, whatever the hell _this_ is. Stiles’ dad is sitting at the table with an untouched mug of coffee in front of him, his eyes tracking their movements carefully. Derek drops Stiles’ hand as they join him, but then he pulls his chair closer to Stiles than would strictly be considered polite and Stiles’ head is starting to hurt. It’s not that he’s not into this, he totally is, but he’s exhausted and his stomach is in knots, and it’s all playing with his mind. They haven’t even kissed, Stiles thinks as he looks at Derek’s jaw clenching.

Stiles’ dad chooses that moment to start to talk. “You’re back,” he says, staring at Derek. “How long for?”

“For good,” Derek answers, meeting the Sheriff’s stare. “I’m not planning on leaving again.” And, oh, that’s good. Stiles likes the sound of that.

“And the reason you were in bed with my son this morning?”

“I was at the loft last night,” Stiles jumps in. “And I found him there. It started to rain, and there’s this big hole in the skylight from—it doesn’t matter what from—and I couldn’t leave him there, dad.”

“So you brought him here and offered him your bed? With you in it?”

“I offered him a place to stay until he finds somewhere new to live,” Stiles says, pushing his chair back and heading over to the still warm coffee maker on the counter. “I didn’t think you finding him on the couch would make this any less awkward.”

His dad huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “You may have a point there.” He takes a sip of his coffee as Stiles returns to the table with two mugs. Placing one in front of Derek, Stiles sits back down, something in his chest slotting into place when Derek hooks his foot around Stiles’ ankle.

“What are your plans now you’re back?”

“Uh, I need a new place to live,” Derek says, large hands wrapped around his mug. “And I guess, a job?”

“Any idea what you want to do? I have contacts across the entire town if you need help. Perks of being Sheriff.” His dad winks—actually winks—at Derek and, wow, that’s disturbing on a whole level Stiles never even knew about. He feels the urge to check his dad’s coffee incase he’s made it Irish.

“I don’t. I’m not sure.”

“We can talk about it later.” Draining the coffee from his mug, Stiles’ dad stands up. “Now, I have to get to work. Think you two can get along without me?”

Stiles glances at Derek and nods,. “I think we can manage that,” he says before standing up and hugging his dad in thanks, squeezing a little harder than usual and smiling when his dad’s hand grazes across the back of his head. When he lets go, his dad reaches over and presses a hand to Derek’s shoulder before he leaves.

The look on Derek’s face is something Stiles has never seen before. It’s as if that small touch has wormed its way through the cracks in his armour and shattered him from the inside. Derek gets up from the table and leans against the counter, staring across the room and Stiles—he can’t ignore the way Derek’s entire body is tensing up.

“Hey,” Stiles says, standing next to him, letting his body brush against Derek. “He won’t push you into anything, you know. He’ll help you with whatever you want, but he won’t—you’re not going to end up doing something you hate just to have a job.”

Derek shakes his head slowly. “That’s not it. I don’t _understand_. Why does he care?”

“Because he’s my dad and he cares about things that are important to me.”

“Oh.” Derek folds his arms across his chest and glances at Stiles. “What have you been telling him?” he asks, a curious look on his face.

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “Okay, well. Nothing bad. He asked questions about the werewolf stuff and you’re kind of a big deal in that.”

“Peter’s involved in it and I doubt your dad would offer to help him out.”

“Help him into a new grave maybe,” Stiles snorts. “Peter is a creep and a murderer and doesn’t deserve nice things.”

“And I do?” Derek turns around, resting his hands against the counter, his head lowered and the muscles in his back shifting underneath his shirt.

“Yeah, Derek. You do.” Stiles covers one of Derek’s hands with his own, his other arm sliding around Derek’s waist. Resting his head against Derek’s shoulder, Stiles sighs and traces a pattern against the back of Derek’s hand. “Why did you come back?”

“Because it was time,” Derek says as he turns back to face Stiles, tangling their fingers together. “And I found myself missing things.”

“Like what?”

The corners of Derek’s lips turn up, and it’s as close to a happy, casual smile Stiles has ever received from him. “You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh.”

“Yes, Stiles, I missed you. I have no idea why—”

“Hey!”

“But I did,” Derek finishes, squirming away from Stiles’ fingers digging into his ribs.

“How much?” Stiles asks with a grin.

“Shut up.”

“No, I think I need to know the degree to which you missed me. Was there pining involved?” Stiles steps closer, pressing their bodies together and slipping a thigh between Derek’s legs. “If I asked Cora, would she tell me that you clung to your pillow and pretended it was me?”

“Why are you like this?” Derek sighs, amusement in his eyes as his hands curl around Stiles, eventually coming to rest in the small of Stiles’ back as Derek pulls him closer.

“You like how I am,” Stiles says, leaning in until he feels Derek’s beard brushing against his skin. Derek’s pupils are dilated, his mouth slightly parted and there’s a hitch in his breath when Stiles’ fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You’re okay,” Derek says, his lips grazing against Stiles’ when he speaks.

“Rude,” Stiles breathes out, digging his blunt nails into Derek’s skin because he needs this, he needs it so much. Needs _Derek_ and, holy fuck isn’t that something? He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but suddenly Derek’s mouth is on his and— _fuck_. It’s a soft, unhurried kiss and Derek’s not even trying to deepen it, as if the feel of Stiles’ lips against his is enough.

Stiles’ fingers thread through Derek’s hair and he pulls him closer, wanting to sink into him, into this. It’s fucking terrifying how much he wants this, how his world has become about nothing more than the way Derek is parting his mouth, the flush he feels spreading up his body and Derek’s hands sliding down to grip his ass.

It’s all wet heat and he’s about two seconds off humping Derek’s leg when Derek pulls away. His lips are shiny with saliva and Stiles’ grins, kissing Derek on the nose, laughing softly when Derek forehead wrinkles. He’s not prepared for Derek’s fingers slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants, or Derek’s mouth attaching itself to his neck and _sucking_. “Fuck,” Stiles gasps out as Derek’s hands graze against the swell of his ass, his teeth worrying the mark on Stiles’ neck. “You do realise my dad is going to see that?”

Derek pauses in his ministrations and lifts his head, raising his eyebrows at Stiles. “You’re bringing up your dad right now?”

“Um. He will see it. And he’ll know you did it.” Stiles makes a face at Derek and shrugs. “Do you really want to be on the end of his glare? I’m not saying you can’t mark me up, just not anywhere visible.”

A smirk appears on Derek’s face and he slips a hand up Stiles’ shirt, fingers grazing across his chest. “How about here?”

“Y-yeah, that works.”

“Here?” Derek asks, his other hand pinching Stiles’ hip.

“That too. But, uh, not in the kitchen? I eat my breakfast here, dude.”

Derek’s head falls onto Stiles’ shoulder and the laugh he lets out is so light and happy it makes something in Stiles’ chest clench. Stroking his fingers against Derek’s neck, Stiles smiles, totally content to listen to Derek laugh forever.

*

Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at Derek kneeling between his legs and he’s absolutely convinced he’s going to wake up any minute now because this can’t be real. He’s can’t possibly have this, Derek Hale cannot be shirtless in his room, wanting to do _this_ with him. Snapping out of it when Derek starts tugging at his shirt, Stiles strips it over his head and lets Derek push him back on the bed. There’s the sensation of Derek’s heated skin against his and Stiles groans, carding his fingers through Derek’s hair. He’s hard, and so is Derek, but the feeling is dulled through their sweatpants and Stiles wants more, wants to _feel_ Derek properly.

Sliding up the bed Stiles watches Derek settle between his legs and slumps back against the pillows when he starts mouthing at his hips, teeth scraping against the skin. “Derek,” he whines.

“What?” Derek says against Stiles’ hip, licking against the bite mark. His hand searches for Stiles’ hand and he holds on, his grip tight. “What do you want?”

“You,” Stiles says, looking down at the sight of Derek’s dark hair against his skin, his tongue swiping over the collection of moles under Stiles’ ribs.

Derek tilts his head up, bearded chin digging into Stiles’ stomach. “You got me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” Derek says simply, kissing Stiles’ skin. “You do.”

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and reaches down, running his hand through Derek’s hair. “Okay.” He lies back against his pillow and enjoys the feel of Derek’s hands on his skin, smooth fingers dipping into Stiles’ hipbones, his lips brushing against Stiles’ stomach.

“I want.” Derek pulls Stiles’ sweatpants down, exposing his cock. Nuzzling against Stiles’ balls, Derek inhales. “Can I?”

“Yes, Derek. Holy fuck, yes,” Stiles groans, biting his bottom lip when he realises what Derek is asking.

“I haven’t, before, but I want— _fuck_ ,” Derek says, his tongue darting out and licking at the base of Stiles’ cock.

Stiles can’t stop his hips from bucking up, and a thrill goes down his spine when Derek lays a heavy arm across him, holding him down effortlessly. There’s something really fucking hot about the contrast of Derek’s tongue delicately trailing up and down Stiles’ dick while he uses his strength to hold him down and Stiles is suddenly ridiculously aware of his toes actually curling.

“You’re really wet,” Derek says conversationally, thumb smearing Stiles’ pre come around before he wraps his mouth around the head of Stiles’ cock and, holy _shit_ that’s a fucking revelation. It takes Derek a few tries to get it right, teeth scraping a little more than Stiles would like, but he’s a quick learner and Stiles will admit he’s pretty fucking easy when it comes to his dick being touched, let alone the heat of Derek’s mouth being around it. He unsuccessfully attempts to push his hips up, feeling Derek smile around his cock and he whines, eyes fluttering shut when Derek pulls off.

Derek wraps a warm hand around Stiles’ length, jerking him slowly, pre come and saliva easing the way. His beard tickles the inside of Stiles’ thighs as he nudges them further apart, sweatpants blocking his way. “Are you attached to these sweats?” he asks, stroking his hand up Stiles’ cock.

“Not particularly?” Stiles bites out.

“Good,” Derek says. He claws them off, the remains falling onto the bed before pushing Stiles’ legs apart, dotting kisses against the skin as he crawls back between them.

Stiles’ hands are fisted in the sheets and his cock is curved up against his stomach, pre come sticky against his skin and he chokes out a curse when Derek starts mouthing at his balls. “Can you— _please_?” he says, squirming against the sheets, sweat beading on his forehead.

Derek turns his head, sucking a mark below the crease of Stiles’ inner thigh, rubbing his beard against the sensitive skin and Stiles keens, his fingers tugging at the sheets, pulling them loose. He’s panting, his chest heaving and when Derek’s sticky hand grips his cock again, Stiles pushes himself up on his hands to watch the way his flushed, leaking cock slips through Derek’s fist again and again.

“Fuck, fuck, come here,” he says, pleading until Derek gives in and surges up, his open mouth colliding with Stiles’ in a bruising kiss. Derek slows the kiss down, turns it tender, his hand still working Stiles’ cock and Stiles’ chest _aches_ with everything he’s feeling. It’s too much for him, and he comes with a broken sob, spilling over Derek’s fist.

Derek’s got a hand at the small of Stiles’ back and it’s the only thing keeping him from falling backwards. “Holy shit, Stiles,” Derek says, slowly lowering him against the bed, kissing the tears on Stiles’ face. Stiles blinks away the moisture in his eyes, unclenches his fingers from the sheets and stares up at the ceiling. “Hey,” Derek says, nudging Stiles’ cheek with his nose. “Breathe.”

Stiles laughs wetly, wiping at his face with one hand. “I don’t know—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You—don’t be sorry,” he says, kissing Stiles’ firmly. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

And it’s stupid how easily those words from Derek relax Stiles, but they do and he sinks back into the mattress, painfully aware that Derek hasn’t come yet. “What can I—what do you want?” Stiles asks, his hands running down Derek’s sweaty back.

Derek shakes his head and kneels over Stiles, roughly pushing his sweatpants down and, fuck. Stiles’ eyes are immediately drawn to Derek’s uncut cock; it’s thick, flushed with blood, and he’s pretty sure his mouth is watering. He licks his lips and whines with disappointment when Derek starts jerking off, hunched over Stiles, breathy noises escaping from his mouth. “Derek, I want—”

“Next time, I promise,” Derek groans, his hand speeding up. “Not going to—oh _fuck_.”

Come hits Stiles’ chest and he runs his fingers through it, looks up at Derek and smirks as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, licking the mess off his skin. It’s not the nicest taste he’s ever had in his mouth, but the way Derek’s mouth drops open as he watches him is more than worth it. Derek yanks his sweatpants back up and covers Stiles’ body with his own, kissing him deeply, tongue searching out his own taste and Stiles gives as good as he gets; hooking a leg over Derek’s hips and winding his arms around his neck. They kiss lazily, Derek working his way down to Stiles’ chest and grazing his teeth against Stiles’ collarbone.

Slipping out of his sweatpants, Derek cleans them both up carefully before dropping the pants on the floor. When they curl up together, Stiles savours the way Derek doesn’t stop touching him, hands running along every inch of Stiles’ skin. They’re sharing a pillow, faces so close their noses bump against each other. It makes Derek smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling and, man, Stiles would do anything to keep that look on Derek’s face.

“You still tired?” Derek asks, catching one of Stiles’ hands and threading their fingers together.

Stiles nods, his limbs heavy as Derek reaches down and grabs a blanket from the floor, haphazardly covering both of them, legs kicking at the fabric when it gets tangled. “Very graceful,” Stiles snorts, pulling the blanket over his shoulders.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Derek says, kissing Stiles’ forehead and curling an arm around him. Rolling onto his back, Derek pulls Stiles with him until his head is nestled on Derek’s chest.

Derek’s heart beat is steady and strong beneath his ear and Stiles smiles, turning his head and kissing the skin he finds. “Thanks for coming back,” he says quietly.

“It’s home,” Derek says, fingers lightly stroking Stiles’ back. “It’s where I’m supposed to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://likeairplanelights.tumblr.com/), if you like.


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